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TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


"Mine  is  no  horse  with  wings,  to  gain 
The  region  of  the  Spheral  chime; 
He  does  but  drag  a  rumbling  wain, 

Cheered  by  the  coupled  bells  of  rhyme." 
Coventry  Patmore. 


TREES 

AND 
OTHER  POEMS 

9 


Copyright,  1914, 
By  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


MY        MOTHER 


3*3$  *1 


Gentlest  of  critics,  does  your  memory  hold 

(I  know  it  does)  a  record  of  the  days 

When  I,  a  schoolboy,  earned  your  generous  praise 
For  halting  verse  and  stories  crudely  told? 
Over  those  childish  scrawls  the  years  have  rolled, 

They  might  not  know  the  world's  unfriendly  gaze; 

But  still  your  smile  shines  down  familiar  ways, 
Touches  my  words  and  turns  their  dross  to  gold. 

More  dear  to-day  than  in  that  vanished  time 

Comes  your  high  praise  to  make  me  proud  and  strong. 

In  my  poor  notes  you  hear  Love's  splendid  chime, 
So  unto  you  does  this,  my  work  belong. 

Take,  then,  a  little  gift  of  fragile  rhyme: 
Your  heart  will  change  it  to  authentic  song. 


357.'U9 


For  permission  to  reprint  these  poems,  I  thank  the 
editors  of  The  Century  Magazine,  The  London  Spectator, 
The  Catholic  World,  The  Ave  Maria,  The  Independent, 
The  New  York  Times  Review  of  Books,  The  New  York 
Times  Sunday  Magazine,  Harper's  Weekly,  The  Bellman, 
The  Smart  Set,  The  Lyric  Year,  Collier's  Weekly,  The 
New  World,  The  Churchman,  and  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse. 


CONTENTS 


CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Twelve-Forty-Five 13 

Pennies 17 

Trees 19 

Stars 20 

Old  Poets 22 

Delicatessen .24 

Servant  Girl  and  Grocer's  Boy 29 

Wealth 31 

Martin *      *  .  .  32 

The  Apartment  House 34 

As  Winds  That  Blow  Against  A  Star   .      ,     .  35 

St.  Laurence 36 

To  A  Young  Poet  Who  Killed  Himself  ...  38 

Memorial  Day 40 

The  Rosary 42 

Vision 43 

To  Certain  Poets 44 

Love's  Lantern 46 

_ 


CONTENTS 


Page 

St.  Alexis 47 

Folly 50 

Madness 52 

Poets 54 

Citizen  of  the  World 55 

To  a  Blackbird  and  His  Mate  Who  Died  in  the 

Spring .  56 

The  Fourth  Shepherd 58 

Easter 65 

Mount  Houvenkopf 66 

The  House  with  Nobody  in  It 67 

Dave  Lilly 70 

Alarm  Clocks 74 

Waverley 75 


10 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


w 


THE  TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE 

(For  Edward  J.  Wheeler) 

ITHIN  the  Jersey  City  shed 


The  engine  coughs  and  shakes  its  head. 
The  smoke,  a  plume  of  red  and  white, 
Waves  madly  in  the  face  of  night. 
And  now  the  grave  incurious  stars 
Gleam  on  the  groaning  hurrying  cars. 
Against  the  kind  and  awful  reign 
Of  darkness,  this  our  angry  train, 
A  noisy  little  rebel,  pouts 
Its  brief  defiance,  flames  and  shouts — 
And  passes  on,  and  leaves  no  trace. 
For  darkness  holds  its  ancient  place, 
Serene  and  absolute,  the  king 
Unchanged,  of  every  living  thing. 
The  houses  lie  obscure  and  still 
In  Rutherford  and  Carlton  Hill. 
Our  lamps  intensify  the  dark 
Of  slumbering  Passaic  Park. 
And  quiet  holds  the  weary  feet 

[13] 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
THE  TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE  (continued) 

That  daily  tramp  through  Prospect  Street. 
What  though  we  clang  and  clank  and  roar 
Through  all  Passaic's  streets?     No  door 
Will  open,  not  an  eye  will  see 
Who  this  loud  vagabond  may  be. 
Upon  my  crimson  cushioned  seat, 
In  manufactured  light  and  heat, 
I  feel  unnatural  and  mean. 
Outside  the  towns  are  cool  and  clean ; 
Curtained  awhile  from  sound  and  sight 
They  take  God's  gracious  gift  of  night. 
The  stars  are  watchful  over  them. 
On  Clifton  as  on  Bethlehem 
The  angels,  leaning  down  the  sky, 
Shed  peace  and  gentle  dreams.     And  I — 
I  ride,  I  blasphemously  ride 
Through  all  the  silent  countryside. 
The  engine's  shriek,  the  headlight's  glare, 
Pollute  the  still  nocturnal  air. 
The  cottages  of  Lake  View  sigh 
And  sleeping,  frown  as  we  pass  by. 
Why,  even  strident  Paterson 
Rests  quietly  as  any  nun. 

_ 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE  (continued) 

Her  foolish  warring  children  keep 
The  grateful  armistice  of  sleep. 
For  what  tremendous  errand's  sake 
Are  we  so  blatantly  awake? 
What  precious  secret  is  our  freight? 
What  king  must  be  abroad  so  late? 
Perhaps  Death  roams  the  hills  to-night 
And  we  rush  forth  to  give  him  fight. 
Or  else,  perhaps,  we  speed  his  way 
To  some  remote  unthinking  prey. 
Perhaps  a  woman  writhes  in  pain 
And  listens — listens  for  the  train! 
The  train,  that  like  an  angel  sings, 
The  train,  with  healing  on  its  wings. 
Now  "Hawthorne !"  the  conductor  cries. 
My  neighbor  starts  and  rubs  his  eyes. 
He  hurries  yawning  through  the  car 
And  steps  out  where  the  houses  are. 
This  is  the  reason  of  our  quest! 
Not   wantonly  we  break  the  rest 
Of  town  and  village,  nor  do  we 
Lightly  profane  night's  sanctity. 
What  Love  commands  the  train  fulfills, 
__ 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
THE  TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE  (continued) 

And  beautiful  upon  the  hills 

Are  these  our  feet  of  burnished  steel. 

Subtly  and  certainly  I  feel 

That  Glen  Rock  welcomes  us  to  her 

And  silent  Ridgewood  seems  to  stir 

And  smile,  because  she  knows  the  train 

Has  brought  her  children  back  again. 

We  carry  people  home — and  so 

God  speeds  us,  wheresoe'er  we  go. 

Hohokus,  Waldwick,  Allendale 

Lift  sleepy  heads  to  give  us  hail. 

In  Ramsey,  Mahwah,  Suffern  stand 

Houses  that  wistfully  demand 

A  father — son — some  human  thing 

That  this,  the  midnight  train,  may  bring. 

The  trains  that  travel  in  the  day 

They  hurry  folks  to  work  or  play. 

The  midnight  train  is  slow  and  old 

But  of  it  let  this  thing  be  told, 

To  its  high  honor  be  it  said 

It  carries  people  home  to  bed. 

My  cottage  lamp  shines  white  and  clear. 

God  bless  the  train  that  brought  me  here. 

_ 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


PENNIES 

A    FEW  long-hoarded  pennies  in  his  hand 

Behold  him  stand; 

A  kilted  Hedonist,  perplexed  and  sad. 
The  joy  that  once  he  had, 
The  first  delight  of  ownership  is  fled. 
He  bows  his  little  head. 
Ah,  cruel  Time,  to  kill 
That  splendid  thrill ! 

Then  in  his  tear-dimmed  eyes 

New  lights  arise. 

He  drops  his  treasured  pennies  on  the  ground, 

They  roll  and  bound 

And  scattered,  rest. 

Now  with  what  zest 

He  runs  to  find  his  errant  wealth  again! 

So  unto  men 

Doth  God,  depriving  that  He  may  bestow. 

Fame,  health  and  money  go, 

But  that  they  may,  new  found,  be  newly  sweet. 

[17] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

PENNIES  (continued) 

Yea,  at  His  feet 

Sit,  waiting  us,  to  their  concealment  bid, 

All  they,  our  lovers,  whom  His  Love  hath  hid. 

Lo,  comfort  blooms  on  pain,  and  peace  on  strife, 

And  gain  on  loss. 
What  is  the  key  to  Everlasting  Life? 

A  blood-stained  Cross. 


[18] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TREES 

(For  Mrs.  Henry  Mills  Alden) 

T  THINK  that  I  shall  never  see 
•*•    A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 
Against  the  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day, 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms^o  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  Summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair ; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain ; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 


[19] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


STARS 

(For  the  Rev.  James  J.  Daly,  S.  J.) 

T3RIGHT  stars,  yellow  stars,  flashing  through 
*-*       the  air, 

Are  you  errant  strands  of  Lady  Mary's  hair? 
As  she  slits  the  cloudy  veil  and  bends  down 

through, 
Do  you  fall  across  her  cheeks  and  over  heaven 

too? 

Gay  stars,  little  stars,  you  are  little  eyes, 

Eyes  of  baby  angels  playing  in  the  skies. 

Now  and  then  a  winged  child  turns  his  merry 

face 
Down  toward  the  spinning  world — what  a  funny 

place ! 

Jesus  Christ  came  from  the  Cross  (Christ  re 
ceive  my  soul!) 

In  each  perfect  hand  and  foot  there  was  a  bloody 
hole. 

[20] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

STARS  (continued) 

Four  great  iron  spikes  there  were,  red  and  never 

dry, 
Michael  plucked  them  from  the  Cross  and  set 

them  in  the  sky. 

Christ's  Troop,  Mary's  Guard,  God's  own  men, 
Draw  your  swords  and  strike  at  Hell  and  strike 

again. 
Every  steel-born  spark  that  flies  where  God's 

battles  are, 
Flashes  past  the  face  of  God,  and  is  a  star. 


[21] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


OLD  POETS 

(For  Robert  Cortez  Holliday) 

TF  I  should  live  in  a  forest 
•*•     And  sleep  underneath  a  tree, 
No  grove  of  impudent  saplings 
Would  make  a  home  for  me. 

I'd  go  where  the  old  oaks  gather, 
Serene  and  good  and  strong, 

And  they  would  not  sigh  and  tremble 
And  vex  me  with  a  song. 

The  pleasantest  sort  of  poet 
Is  the  poet  who's  old  and  wise, 

With  an  old  white  beard  and  wrinkles 
About  his  kind  old  eyes. 

For  these  young  flippertigibbets 
A-rhyming  their  hours  away 

They  won't  be  still  like  honest  men 
And  listen  to  what  you  say. 

[22] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

OLD  POETS  (continued) 

The  young  poet  screams  forever 

About  his  sex  and  his  soul ; 
But  the  old  man  listens,  and  smokes  his  pipe, 

And  polishes  its  bowl. 

There  should  be  a  club  for  poets 
Who  have  come  to  seventy  year. 

They  should  sit  in  a  great  hall  drinking 
Red  wine  and  golden  beer. 

They  would  shuffle  in  of  an  evening, 
Each  one  to  his  cushioned  seat, 

And  there  would  be  mellow  talking 
And  silence  rich  and  sweet. 

There  is  no  peace  to  be  taken 

With  poets  who  are  young, 
For  they  worry  about  the  wars  to  be  fought 

And  the  songs  that  must  be  sung. 

But  the  old  man  knows  that  he's  in  his  chair 
And  that  God's  on  His  throne  in  the  sky. 

So  he  sits  by  the  fire  in  comfort 
And  he  lets  the  world  spin  by. 

[23] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


DELICATESSEN 

\T7HY  is  that  wanton  gossip  Fame 

So  dumb  about  this  man's  affairs? 
Why  do  we  titter  at  his  name 

Who  come  to  buy  his  curious  wares? 

Here  is  a  shop  of  wonderment. 

From  every  land  has  come  a  prize ; 
Rich  spices  from  the  Orient, 

And  fruit  that  knew  Italian  skies, 

And  figs  that  ripened  by  the  sea 
In  Smyrna,  nuts  from  hot  Brazil, 

Strange  pungent  meats  from  Germany, 
And  currants  from  a  Grecian  hill.     , 

He  is  the  lord  of  goodly  things 

That  make  the  poor  man's  table  gay, 

Yet  of  his  worth  no  minstrel  sings 
And  on  his  tomb  there  is  no  bay. 


[24] 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
DELICATESSEN  (continued) 

Perhaps  he  lives  and  dies  unpraised, 
This  trafficker  in  humble  sweets, 

Because  his  little  shops  are  raised 
By  thousands  in  the  city  streets. 

Yet  stars  in  greater  numbers  shine, 
And  violets  in  millions  grow, 

And  they  in  many  a  golden  line 
Are  sung,  as  every  child  must  know. 

Perhaps  Fame  thinks  his  worried  eyes, 
His  wrinkled,  shrewd,  pathetic  face, 

His  shop,  and  all  he  sells  and  buys 
Are  desperately  commonplace. 

Well,  it  is  true  he  has  no  sword 
To  dangle  at  his  booted  knees. 

He  leans  across  a  slab  of  board, 
And  draws  his  knife  and  slices  cheese. 

He  never  heard  of  chivalry, 
He  longs  for  no  heroic  times; 

He  thinks  of  pickles,  olives,  tea, 

And  dollars,  nickles,  cents  and  dimes. 

[25] 


TREES    AND    OTHER    POEMS 
DELICATESSEN  (continued) 

His  world  has  narrow  walls,  it  seems ; 

By  counters  is  his  soul  confined; 
His  wares  are  all  his  hopes  and  dreams, 

They  are  the  fabric  of  his  mind. 

Yet — in  a  room  above  the  store 
There  is  a  woman — and  a  child 

Pattered  just  now  across  the  floor; 
The  shopman  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

For,  once  he  thrilled  with  high  romance 
And  tuned  to  love  his  eager  voice. 

Like  any  cavalier  of  France 

He  wooed  the  maiden  of  his  choice. 

And  now  deep  in  his  weary  heart 
Are  sacred  flames  that  whitely  burn. 

He  has  of  Heaven's  grace  a  part 
Who  loves,  who  is  beloved  in  turn. 

And  when  the  long  day's  work  is  done, 
(How  slow  the  leaden  minutes  ran!) 

Home,  with  his  wife  and  little  son, 
He  is  no  huckster,  but  a  man ! 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
DELICATESSEN  (continued) 

And  there  are  those  who  grasp  his  hand, 
Who  drink  with  him  and  wish  him  well. 

O  in  no  drear  and  lonely  land 
Shall  he  who  honors  friendship  dwell. 

And  in  his  little  shop,  who  knows 
What  bitter  games  of  war  are  played? 

Why,  daily  on  each  corner  grows 
A  foe  to  rob  him  of  his  trade. 

He  fights,  and  for  his  fireside's  sake ; 

He  fights  for  clothing  and  for  bread : 
The  lances  of  his  foemen  make 

A  steely  halo  round  his  head. 

He  decks  his  window  artfully, 
He  haggles  over  paltry  sums. 

In  this  strange  field  his  war  must  be 
And  by  such  blows  his  triumph  comes. 

What  if  no  trumpet  sounds  to  call 
His  armed  legions  to  his  side? 

What  if,  to  no  ancestral  hall 

He  comes  in  all  a  victor's  pride? 

[27]  


TREES     AND     OTHER    POEMS 
DELICATESSEN  (continued) 

The  scene  shall  never  fit  the  deed. 

Grotesquely  wonders  come  to  pass. 
The  fool  shall  mount  an  Arab  steed 

And  Jesus  ride  upon  an  ass. 

This  man  has  home  and  child  and  wife 
And  battle  set  for  every  day. 

This  man  has  God  and  love  and  life; 
These  stand,  all  else  shall  pass  away. 

O  Carpenter  of  Nazareth, 

Whose  mother  was  a  village  maid, 
Shall  we,  Thy  children,  blow  our  breath 

In  scorn  on  any  humble  trade? 

Have  pity  on  our  foolishness 

And  give  us  eyes,  that  we  may  see 

Beneath  the  shopman's  clumsy  dress 
The  splendor  of  humanity! 


[28] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


SERVANT  GIRL  AND  GROCER'S  BOY 

TTER  lips'  remark  was:     "Oh,  you  kid!" 
•^     Her  soul  spoke  thus  (I  know  it  did): 

"O  king  of  realms  of  endless  joy, 
My  own,  my  golden  grocer's  boy, 

I  am  a  princess  forced  to  dwell 
Within  a  lonely  kitchen  cell, 

While  you  go  dashing  through  the  land 
With  loveliness  on  every  hand. 

Your  whistle  strikes  my  eager  ears 
Like  music  of  the  choiring  spheres. 

The  mighty  earth  grows  faint  and  reels 
Beneath  your  thundering  wagon  wheels. 

How  keenly,  perilously  sweet 
To  cling  upon  that  swaying  seat ! 

[29] 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
SERVANT  GIRL  AND  GROCER'S  BOY  (cont.) 

How  happy  she  who  by  your  side 
May  share  the  splendors  of  that  ride ! 

Ah,  if  you  will  not  take  my  hand 
And  bear  me  off  across  the  land, 

Then,  traveller  from  Arcady, 
Remain  awhile  and  comfort  me. 

What  other  maiden  can  you  find 
So  young  and  delicate  and  kind?" 

Her  lips'  remark  was:     "Oh,  you  kid!" 
Her  soul  spoke  thus  (I  know  it  did). 


[30] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


WEALTH 

(For  Aline) 

T^ROM  what  old  ballad,   or  from  what  rich 
•*•        frame 

Did  you  descend  to  glorify  the  earth? 
Was  it  from  Chaucer's  singing  book  you  came  ? 

Or  did  Watteau's  small  brushes  give  you  birth  ? 

Nothing  so  exquisite  as  that  slight  hand 
Could  Raphael  or  Leonardo  trace. 

Nor  could  the  poets  know  in  Fairyland 
The  changing  wonder  of  your  lyric  face. 

I  would  possess  a  host  of  lovely  things, 
But  I  am  poor  and  such  joys  may  not  be. 

So  God  who  lifts  the  poor  and  humbles  kings 
Sent  loveliness  itself  to  dwell  with  me. 


[30 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


MARTIN 

\ T 7HEN  I  am  tired  of  earnest  men, 

*  *       Intense  and  keen  and  sharp  and  clever, 
Pursuing  fame  with  brush  or  pen 

Or  counting  metal  disks  forever, 
Then  from  the  halls  of  Shadowland 

Beyond  the  trackless  purple  sea 
Old  Martin's  ghost  comes  back  to  stand 

Beside  my  desk  and  talk  to  me. 

Still  on  his  delicate  pale  face 

A  quizzical  thin  smile  is  showing, 
His  cheeks  are  wrinkled  like  fine  lace, 

His  kind  blue  eyes  are  gay  and  glowing. 
He  wears  a  brilliant-hued  cravat, 

A  suit  to  match  his  soft  grey  hair, 
A  rakish  stick,  a  knowing  hat, 

A  manner  blithe  and  debonair. 

How  good  that  he  who  always  knew 

That  being  lovely  was  a  duty, 
Should  have  gold  halls  to  wander  through 

And  should  himself  inhabit  beauty. 

[32] 


TREES    AND    OTHER    POEMS 
MARTIN  (continued) 

How  like  his  old  unselfish  way 

To  leave  those  halls  of  splendid  mirth 

And  comfort  those  condemned  to  stay 
Upon  the  dull  and  sombre  earth. 

Some  people  ask:    "What  cruel  chance 

Made  Martin's  life  so  sad  a  story?" 
Martin?    Why,  he  exhaled  romance, 

And  wore  an  overcoat  of  glory. 
A  fleck  of  sunlight  in  the  street, 

A  horse,  a  book,  a  girl  who  smiled, 
Such  visions  made  each  moment  sweet 

For  this  receptive  ancient  child. 

Because  it  was  old  Martin's  lot 

To  be,  not  make,  a  decoration, 
Shall  we  then  scorn  him,  having  not 

His  genius  of  appreciation? 
Rich  joy  and  love  he  got  and  gave; 

His  heart  was  merry  as  his  dress ; 
Pile  laurel  wreaths  upon  his  grave 

Who  did  not  gain,  but  was,  success! 


[33] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  APARTMENT  HOUSE 

REVERE  against  the  pleasant  arc  of  sky 
^    The  great  stone  box  is  cruelly  displayed. 
The  street  becomes  more  dreary  from  its 

shade, 

And  vagrant  breezes  touch  its  walls  and  die. 
Here  sullen  convicts  in  their  chains  might  lie, 
Or  slaves  toil  dumbly  at  some  dreary  trade. 
How  worse  than  folly  is  their  labor  made 
Who  cleft  the  rocks  that  this  might  rise  on  high ! 

Yet,  as  I  look,  I  see  a  woman's  face 

Gleam  from  a  window  far  above  the  street. 

This  is  a  house  of  homes,  a  sacred  place, 
By  human  passion  made  divinely  sweet. 

How  all  the  building  thrills  with  sudden  grace 
Beneath  the  magic  of  Love's  golden  feet ! 


[34] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


AS  WINDS  THAT  BLOW  AGAINST  A 
STAR 

(For  Aline) 

"VTOW  by  what  whim  of  wanton  chance 
•^•^      Do  radiant  eyes  know  sombre  days? 
And  feet  that  shod  in  light  should  dance 
Walk  weary  and  laborious  ways? 

But  rays  from  Heaven,  white  and  whole, 
May  penetrate  the  gloom  of  earth ; 

And  tears  but  nourish,  in  your  soul, 
The  glory  of  celestial  mirth. 

The  darts  of  toil  and  sorrow,  sent 
Against  your  peaceful  beauty,  are 

As  foolish  and  as  impotent 

As  winds  that  blow  against  a  star. 


[35] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


ST.  LAURENCE 

XT7ITHIN  the  broken  Vatican 
*  *       The  murdered  Pope  is  lying  dead. 
The  soldiers  of  Valerian 
Their  evil  hands  are  wet  and  red. 

Unarmed,  unmoved,  St.  Laurence  waits, 

His  cassock  is  his  only  mail. 
The  troops  of  Hell  have  burst  the  gates, 

But  Christ  is  Lord,  He  shall  prevail. 

They  have  encompassed  him  with  steel, 
They  spit  upon  his  gentle  face, 

He  smiles  and  bleeds,  nor  will  reveal 
The  Church's  hidden  treasure-place. 

Ah,  faithful  steward,  worthy  knight, 
Well  hast  thou  done.    Behold  thy  fee ! 

Since  thou  hast  fought  the  goodly  fight 
A  martyr's  death  is  fixed  for  thee. 


[36] 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
ST.  LAURENCE  (continued) 

St.  Laurence,  pray  for  us  to  bear 
The  faith  which  glorifies  thy  name. 

St.  Laurence,  pray  for  us  to  share 
The  wounds  of  Love's  consuming  flame. 


[37] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TO  A  YOUNG  POET  WHO  KILLED 
HIMSELF 

\T7HEN  you  had  played  with  life  a  space 
*  *       And  made  it  drink  and  lust  and  sing, 
You  flung  it  back  into  God's  face 

And  thought  you  did  a  noble  thing. 
"Lo,  I  have  lived  and  loved,"  you  said, 

"And  sung  to  fools  too  dull  to  hear  me. 
Now  for  a  cool  and  grassy  bed 

With  violets  in  blossom  near  me." 

Well,  rest  is  good  for  weary  feet, 

Although  they  ran  for  no  great  prize ; 
And  violets  are  very  sweet, 

Although  their  roots  are  in  your  eyes. 
But  hark  to  what  the  earthworms  say 

Who  share  with  you  your  muddy  haven: 
"The  fight  was  on — you  ran  away. 

You  are  a  coward  and  a  craven. 

"The  rug  is  ruined  where  you  bled ; 

It  was  a  dirty  way  to  die ! 
To  put  a  bullet  through  your  head 

And  make  a  silly  woman  cry! 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

TO  A  YOUNG  POET  WHO  KILLED  HIMSELF 
(continued) 

You  could  not  vex  the  merry  stars 

Nor  make  them  heed  you,  dead  or  living. 

Not  all  your  puny  anger  mars 
God's  irresistible  forgiving. 

"Yes,  God  forgives  and  men  forget, 

And  you're  forgiven  and  forgotten. 
You  might  be  gaily  sinning  yet 

And  quick  and  fresh  instead  of  rotten. 
And  when  you  think  of  love  and  fame 

And  all  that  might  have  come  to  pass, 
Then  don't  you  feel  a  little  shame? 

And  don't  you  think  you  were  an  ass?" 


[39] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

"Dulce  et  decorum  est" 


'THHE  bugle  echoes  shrill  and  sweet, 

•*•       But  not  of  war  it  sings  to-day. 
The  road  is  rhythmic  with  the  feet 
Of  men-at-arms  who  come  to  pray. 

The  roses  blossom  white  and  red 
On  tombs  where  weary  soldiers  lie ; 

Flags  wave  above  the  honored  dead 
And  martial  music  cleaves  the  sky. 

Above  their  wreath-strewn  graves  we  kneel, 
They  kept  the  faith  and  fought  the  fight. 

Through  flying  lead  and  crimson  steel 
They  plunged  for  Freedom  and  the  Right, 

May  we,  their  grateful  children,  learn 
Their  strength,  who  lie  beneath  this  sod, 

Who  went  through  fire  and  death  to  earn 
At  last  the  accolade  of  God. 


[40] 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
MEMORIAL  DAY  (continued) 

In  shining  rank  on  rank  arrayed 
They  march,  the  legions  of  the  Lord ; 

He  is  their  Captain  unafraid, 
The   Prince    of   Peace  .  .  .  Who   brought   a 
sword. 


[41] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  ROSARY 

on  the  lute,  nor  harp  of  many  strings 
Shall  all  men  praise  the  Master  of  all  song. 
Our  life  is  brief,  one  saith,  and  art  is  long; 
And  skilled  must  be  the  laureates  of  kings. 
Silent,  O  lips  that  utter  foolish  things ! 
Rest,  awkward  fingers  striking  all  notes  wrong ! 
How  from  your  toil  shall  issue,  White  and 

strong, 
Music  like  that  God's  chosen  poet  sings? 

There  is  one  harp  that  any  hand  can  play, 
And  from  its  strings  what  harmonies  arise ! 

There  is  one  song  that  any  mouth  can  say, — 
A  song  that  lingers  when  all  singing  dies. 

When  on  their  beads  our  Mother's  children  pray 
Immortal  music  charms  the  grateful  skies. 


[42] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


VISION 

(For  Aline) 

TTOMER,  they  tell  us,  was  blind  and  could 
•*•  not  see  the  beautiful  faces 

Looking  up  into  his  own  and  reflecting  the  joy 

of  his  dream, 
Yet  did  he  seem 

Gifted  with  eyes  that  could  follow  the  gods  to 
their  holiest  places. 

I  have  no  vision  of  gods,  not  of  Eros  with  love- 
arrows  laden, 

Jupiter  thundering  death  or  of  Juno  his  white- 
breasted  queen, 
Yet  have  I  seen 

All  of  the  joy  of  the  world  in  the  innocent  heart 
of  a  maiden. 


[43] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TO  CERTAIN  POETS 


is  the  rhymer's  honest  trade 
A  thing  for  scornful  laughter  made. 


The  merchant's  sneer,  the  clerk's  disdain, 
These  are  the  burden  of  our  pain. 

Because  of  you  did  this  befall, 

You  brought  this  shame  upon  us  all. 

You  little  poets  mincing  there 

With  women's  hearts  and  women's  hair ! 

How  sick  Dan  Chaucer's  ghost  must  be 
To  hear  you  lisp  of  "Poesie"! 

A  heavy-handed  blow,  I  think, 

Would  make  your  veins  drip  scented  ink. 

You  strut  and  smirk  your  little  while 
So  mildly,  delicately  vile ! 

[44] 


TREES     AND     OTHER    POEMS 
TO  CERTAIN  POETS  (continued) 

Your  tiny  voices  mock  God's  wrath, 
You  snails  that  crawl  along  His  path! 

Why,  what  has  God  or  man  to  do 
With  wet,  amorphous  things  like  you? 

This  thing  alone  you  have  achieved: 
Because  of  you,  it  is  believed 

That  all  who  earn  their  bread  by  rhyme 
Are  like  yourselves,  exuding  slime. 

Oh,  cease  to  write,  for  very  shame, 
Ere  all  men  spit  upon  our  name ! 

Take  up  your  needles,  drop  your  pen, 
And  leave  the  poet's  craft  to  men ! 


[45] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


LOVE'S  LANTERN 

(For  Aline) 

TOECAUSE  the  road  was  steep  and  long 
*~*     And  through  a  dark  and  lonely  land, 
God  set  upon  my  lips  a  song 
And  put  a  lantern  in  my  hand. 

Through  miles  on  weary  miles  of  night 
That  stretch  relentless  in  my  way 

My  lantern  burns  serene  and  white, 
An  unexhausted  cup  of  day. 

O  golden  lights  and  lights  like  wine, 
How  dim  your  boasted  splendors  are. 

Behold  this  little  lamp  of  mine ; 
It  is  more  starlike  than  a  star ! 


146] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


ST.  ALEXIS 

Patron  of  Beggars 

TT7E  who  beg  for  bread  as  we  daily  tread 

Country  lane  and  city  street, 
Let  us  kneel  and  pray  on  the  broad  highway 

To  the  saint  with  the  vagrant  feet. 
Our  altar  light  is  a  buttercup  bright, 

And  our  shrine  is  a  bank  of  sod, 
But  still  we  share  St.  Alexis*  care, 

The  Vagabond  of  God. 

They  gave  him  a  home  in  purple  Rome 

And  a  princess  for  his  bride, 
But  he  rowed  away  on  his  wedding  day 

Down  the  Tiber's  rushing  tide. 
And  he  came  to  land  on  the  Asian  strand 

Where  the  heathen  people  dwell ; 
As  a  beggar  he  strayed  and  he  preached  and 
prayed 

And  he  saved  their  souls  from  hell. 

[47] 


TREES     AND     OTHER    POEMS 
ST.  ALEXIS  (continued) 

Bowed  with  years  and  pain  he  came  back  again 

To  his  father's  dwelling  place. 
There  was  none  to  see  who  this  tramp  might  be, 

For  they  knew  not  his  bearded  face. 
But  his  father  said,  "Give  him  drink  and  bread 

And  a  couch  underneath  the  stair." 
So  Alexis  crept  to  his  hole  and  slept. 

But  he  might  not  linger  there. 

For  when  night  came  down  on  the  seven-hilled 
town, 

And  the  emperor  hurried  in, 
Saying,  "Lo,  I  hear  that  a  saint  is  near 

Who  will  cleanse  us  of  our  sin," 
Then  they  looked  in  vain  where  the  saint  had  lain, 

For  his  soul  had  fled  afar, 
From  his  fleshly  home  he  had  gone  to  roam 

Where  the  gold-paved  highways  are. 

We  who  beg  for  bread  as  we  daily  tread 

Country  lane  and  city  street, 
Let  us  kneel  and  pray  on  the  broad  highway 

To  the  saint  with  the  vagrant  feet. 

[48] 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
ST.  ALEXIS  (continued) 

Our  altar  light  is  a  buttercup  bright, 
And  our  shrine  is  a  bank  of  sod, 

But  still  we  share  St.  Alexis*  care, 
The  Vagabond  of  God! 


[49] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


FOLLY 

(For  A.  K.   K.) 

\T7HAT  distant  mountains  thrill  and  glow 
*          Beneath  our  Lady  Folly's  tread? 
Why  has  she  left  us,  wise  in  woe, 

Shrewd,  practical,  uncomforted? 
We  cannot  love  or  dream  or  sing, 

We  are  too  cynical  to  pray, 
There  is  no  joy  in  anything 

Since  Lady  Folly  went  away. 

Many  a  knight  and  gentle  maid, 

Whose  glory  shines  from  years  gone  by, 
Through  ignorance  was  unafraid 

And  as  a  fool  knew  how  to  die. 
Saint  Folly  rode  beside  Jehanne 

And  broke  the  ranks  of  Hell  with  her, 
And  Folly's  smile  shone  brightly  on 

Christ's  plaything,  Brother  Juniper. 

Our  minds  are  troubled  and  defiled 
By  study  in  a  weary  school. 

[So] 


TREES     AND     OTHER    POEMS 
FOLLY    (continued) 

O  for  the  folly  of  the  child! 

The  ready  courage  of  the  fool ! 
Lord,  crush  our  knowledge  utterly 

And  make  us  humble,  simple  men; 
And  cleansed  of  wisdom,  let  us  see 

Our  Lady  Folly's  face  again. 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


MADNESS 

(For  Sara  Teasdale) 

lonely  farm,  the  crowded  street, 
The  palace  and  the  slum, 
Give  welcome  to  my  silent  feet 
As,  bearing  gifts,  I  come. 

Last  night  a  beggar  crouched  alone, 

A  ragged  helpless  thing ; 
I  set  him  on  a  moonbeam  throne—* 

Today  he  is  a  king. 

Last  night  a  king  in  orb  and  crown 
Held  court  with  splendid  cheer; 

Today  he  tears  his  purple  gown 
And  moans  and  shrieks  in  fear. 

Not  iron  bars,  nor  flashing  spears, 

Not  land,  nor  sky,  nor  sea, 
Nor  love's  artillery  of  tears 

Can  keep  mine  own  from  me. 

[53] 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
MADNESS  (continued) 

Serene,  unchanging,  ever  fair, 
I  smile  with  secret  mirth" 

And  in  a  net  of  mine  own  hair 
I  swing  the  captive  earth. 


[53] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


POETS 

T  TAIN  is  the  chiming  of  forgotten  bells 

That    the    wind    sways    above    a    ruined 

shrine. 

Vainer  his  voice  in  whom  no  longer  dwells 
Hunger  that  craves  immortal  Bread  and  Wine. 

Light  songs  we  breathe  that  perish  with  our 
breath 

Out  of  our  lips  that  have  not  kissed  the  rod. 
They  shall  not  live  who  have  not  tasted  death. 

They  only  sing  who  are  struck  dumb  by  God. 


[54] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD 

longer  of  Him  be  it  said 

"He  hath  no  place  to  lay  His  head.' 

In  every  land  a  constant  lamp 

Flames  by  His  small  and  mighty  camp. 

There  is  no  strange  and  distant  place 
That  is  not  gladdened  by  His  face. 

And  every  nation  kneels  to  hail 

The  Splendour  shining  through  Its  veil. 

Cloistered  beside  the  shouting  street, 
Silent,  He  calls  me  to  His  feet. 

Imprisoned  for  His  love  of  me 

He  makes  my  spirit  greatly  free. 

• 

And  through  my  lips  that  uttered  sin 
The  King  of  Glory  enters  in. 


[55] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TO  A  BLACKBIRD  AND  HIS  MATE 
WHO  DIED  IN  THE  SPRING 

(For  Kenton) 

A  N  iron  hand  has  stilled  the  throats 
•**     That  throbbed  with  loud  and  rhythmic  glee 
And  dammed  the  flood  of  silver  notes 

That  drenched  the  world  in  melody. 
The  blosmy  apple  boughs  are  yearning 
For  their  wild  choristers'  returning, 

But  no  swift  wings  flash  through  the  tree. 

Ye  that  were  glad  and  fleet  and  strong, 

Shall  Silence  take  you  in  her  net? 
And  shall  Death  quell  that  radiant  song 

Whose  echo  thrills  the  meadow  yet? 
Burst  the  frail  web  about  you  clinging 
And  charm  Death's  cruel  heart  with  singing 

Till  with  strange  tears  his  eyes  are  wet. 

The  scented  morning  of  the  year 

Is  old  and  stale  now  ye  are  gone. 
No  friendly  songs  the  children  hear 

Among  the  bushes  on  the  lawn. 

[56] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

TO   A   BLACKBIRD   AND   HIS   MATE   WHO 
DIED  IN  THE  SPRING  (continued) 

When  babies  wander  out  a-Maying 
Will  ye,  their  bards,  afar  be  straying? 
Unhymned  by  you,  what  is  the  dawn? 

Nay,  since  ye  loved  ye  cannot  die. 

Above  the  stars  is  set  your  nest. 
Through  Heaven's  fields  ye  sing  and  fly 

And  in  the  trees  of  Heaven  rest. 
And  little  children  in  their  dreaming 
Shall  see  your  soft  black  plumage  gleaming 

And  smile,  by  your  clear  music  blest. 


[571 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  FOURTH  SHEPHERD 

(For  Thomas  Walsh) 

I 

nights  like  this  the  huddled  sheep 
Are  like  white  clouds  upon  the  grass, 
And  merry  herdsmen  guard  their  sleep 
And  chat  and  watch  the  big  stars  pass. 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  lie 

Upon  the  meadow  on  the  hill 
With  kindly  fellowship  near  by 

Of  sheep  and  men  of  gentle  will. 

I  lean  upon  my  broken  crook 

And  dream  of  sheep  and  grass  and  men — 

0  shameful  eyes  that  cannot  look 
On  any  honest  thing  again ! 

On  bloody  feet  I  clambered  down 
And  fled  the  wages  of  my  sin, 

1  am  the  leavings  of  the  town, 
And  meanly  serve  its  meanest  inn. 

[58] 


TREES     AND     OTHER     POEMS 
THE  FOURTH  SHEPHERD  (continued) 

I  tramp  the  courtyard  stones  in  grief, 
While  sleep  takes  man  and  beast  to  her. 

And  every  cloud  is  calling  "Thief!" 
And  every  star  calls  "Murderer !" 


[59] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  FOURTH  SHEPHERD  (continued) 


II 


The  hand  of  God  is  sure  and  strong, 
Nor  shall  a  man  forever  flee      t. 

The  bitter  punishment  of  wrong. 
The  wrath  of  God  is  over  me ! 

With  ashen  bread  and  wine  of  tears 
Shall  I  be  solaced  in  my  pain. 

I  wear  through  black  and  endless  years 
Upon  my  brow  the  mark  of  Cain. 


[60] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  FOURTH  SHEPHERD  (continued) 


III 

Poor  vagabond,  so  old  and  mild, 
Will  they  not  keep  him  for  a  night? 

And  She,  a  woman  great  with  child, 
So  frail  and  pitiful  and  white. 

Good  people,  since  the  tavern  door 
Is  shut  to  you,  come  here  instead. 

See,  I  have  cleansed  my  stable  floor 
And  piled  fresh  hay  to  make  a  bed. 

Here  is  some  milk  and  oaten  cake. 

Lie  down  and  sleep  and  rest  you  fair, 
Nor  fear,  O  simple  folk,  to  take 

The  bounty  of  a  child  of  care. 


[61] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  FOURTH  SHEPHERD  (continued) 


IV 


On  nights  like  this  the  huddled  sheep — 

I  never  saw  a  night  so  fair. 
How  huge  the  sky  is,  and  how  deep ! 

And  how  the  planets  flash  and  glare ! 

At  dawn  beside  my  drowsy  flock 
What  winged  music  I  have  heard! 

But  now  the  clouds  with  singing  rock 
As  if  the  sky  were  turning  bird. 

O  blinding  Light,  O  blinding  Light ! 

Burn  through  my  heart  with  sweetest  pain. 
O  flaming  Song,  most  loudly  bright, 

Consume  away  my  deadly  stain! 


[62] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  FOURTH  SHEPHERD  (continued) 


The  stable  glows  against  the  sky, 

And  who  are  these  that  throng  the  way? 

My  three  old  comrades  hasten  by 
And  shining  angels  kneel  and  pray. 

The  door  swings  wide — I  cannot  go — 
I  must  and  yet  I  dare  not  see. 

Lord,  who  am  I  that  I  should  know — 
Lord,  God,  be  merciful  to  me! 


[63] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  FOURTH  SHEPHERD  (continued) 


VI 


O  Whiteness,  whiter  than  the  fleece 
Of  new-washed  sheep  on  April  sod ! 

O  Breath  of  Life,  O  Prince  of  Peace, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  O  Lamb  of  God! 


[64] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

EASTER 

ls^ 
/T-*HE  air  is  like  a  butterfly 

•*•       With  frail  blue  wings. 
The  happy  earth  looks  at  the  sky 
And  sings. 


[65] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


MOUNT  HOUVENKOPF 

OERENE    he     stands,     with    mist     serenely 
^       crowned, 

And  draws  a  cloak  of  trees  about  his  breast. 

The  thunder  roars  but  cannot  break  his  rest 
And  from  his  rugged  face  the  tempests  bound. 
He  does  not  heed  the  angry  lightning's  wound, 

The  raging  blizzard  is  his  harmless  guest, 

And  human  life  is  but  a  passing  jest 
To  him  who  sees  Time  spin  the  years  around. 

But  fragile  souls,  in  skyey  reaches  find 

High  vantage-points  and  view  him  from  afar. 

How  low  he  seems  to  the  ascended  mind, 
How  brief  he  seems  where  all  things  endless 
are; 

This  little  playmate  of  the  mighty  wind 
This  young  companion  of  an  ancient  star. 


[66] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  NOBODY  IN  IT 

\T7HENEVER  I  walk  to  Suffern  along  the 
"         Erie  track 
I  go  by  a  poor  old  farmhouse  with  its  shingles 

broken  and  black. 
I  suppose  I've  passed  it  a  hundred  times,  but  I 

always  stop  for  a  minute 
And  look  at  the  house,  the  tragic  house,  the 

house  with  nobody  in  it. 

I  never  have  seen  a  haunted  house,  but  I  hear 

there  are  such  things ; 
That  they  hold  the  talk  of  spirits,  their  mirth 

and  sorrowings. 
I  know  this  house  isn't  haunted,  and  I  wish  it 

were,  I  do; 
For  it  wouldn't  be  so  lonely  if  it  had  a  ghost  or 

two. 

This  house  on  the  road  to  Suffern  needs  a  dozen 

panes  of  glass, 
And  somebody  ought  to  weed  the  walk  and  take 

a  scythe  to  the  grass. 

[67] 


TREES    AND    OTHER    POEMS 
THE  HOUSE  WITH  NOBODY  IN  IT   (cont.) 

It  needs  new  paint  and  shingles,  and  the  vines 

should  be  trimmed  and  tied ; 
But  what  it  needs  the  most  of  all  is  some  people 

living  inside. 

If  I  had  a  lot  of  money  and  all  my  debts  were 

paid 
I'd  put  a  gang  of  men  to  work  with  brush  and 

saw  and  spade. 
I'd  buy  that  place  and  fix  it  up  the  way  it  used 

to  be 
And  I'd  find  some  people  who  wanted  a  home  and 

give  it  to  them  free. 

Now,  a  new  house  standing  empty,  with  staring 
window  and  door, 

Looks  idle,  perhaps,  and  foolish,  like  a  hat  on 
its  block  in  the  store. 

But  there's  nothing  mournful  about  it;  it  can 
not  be  sad  and  lone 

For  the  lack  of  something  within  it  that  it  has 
never  known. 


[68] 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
THE  HOUSE  WITH  NOBODY  IN  IT   (cont.) 

But  a  house  that  has  done  what  a  house  should 

do,  a  house  that  has  sheltered  life, 
That  has  put  its  loving  wooden  arms  around  a 

man  and  his  wife, 
A  house  that  has  echoed  a  baby's  laugh  and  held 

up  his  stumbling  feet, 
Is  the  saddest  sight,  when  it's  left  alone,  that  ever 

your  eyes  could  meet. 

So  whenever  I  go  to  Suffern  along  the  Erie  track 
I  never  go  by  the  empty  house  without  stopping 

and  looking  back, 
Yet  it  hurts  me  to  look  at  the  crumbling  roof 

and  the  shutters  fallen  apart, 
For  I  can't  help  thinking  the  poor  old  house  is 

a  house  with  a  broken  heart. 


[69] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


DAVE  LILLY 

\ 

\ 

'T^HERE'S  a  brook  on  the  side  of  Greylock 

^         that  used  to  be  full  of  trout, 
But  there's  nothing  there  now  but  minnows; 

they  say  it  is  all  fished  out. 
I  fished  there  many  a  Summer  day  some  twenty 

years  ago, 
And  I  never  quit  without  getting  a  mess  of  a 

dozen  or  so. 

There  was  a  man,  Dave  Lilly,  who  lived  on  the 
North  Adams  road, 

And  he  spent  all  his  time  fishing,  while  his  neigh 
bors  reaped  and  sowed. 

He  was  the  luckiest  fisherman  in  the  Berkshire 
hills,  I  think. 

And  when  he  didn't  go  fishing  he'd  sit  in  the 
tavern  and  drink. 

Well,  Dave  is  dead  and  buried  and  nobody  cares 

very  much; 
They  have  no  use  in  Greylock  for  drunkards  and 

loafers  and  such. 

[70] 


TREES    AND     OTHER    POEMS 
DAVE  LILLY  (continued) 

But  I  always  liked  Dave  Lilly,  he  was  pleasant 

as  you  could  wish; 
He  was  shiftless  and  good-for-nothing,  but  he 

certainly  could  fish. 

The  other  night  I  was  walking  up  the  hill  from 

Williamstown 
And  I  came  to  the  brook  I  mentioned,  and  I 

stopped  on  the  bridge  and  sat  down. 
I  looked  at  the  blackened  water  with  its  little 

flecks  of  white 
And  I  heard  it  ripple  and  whisper  in  the  still  of 

the  Summer  night. 

And  after  I'd  been  there  a  minute  it  seemed  to 

me  I  could  feel 
The  presence  of  someone  near  me,  and  I  heard 

the  hum  of  a  reel. 
And  the  water  was  churned  and  broken,  and 

something  was  brought  to  land 
By  a  twist  and  flirt  of  a  shadowy  rod  in  a  deft 

and  shadowy  hand. 


[71] 


TREES    AND    OTHER    POEMS 
DAVE  LILLY  (continued) 

I  scrambled  down  to  the  brookside  and  hunted 
all  about; 

There  wasn't  a  sign  of  a  fisherman ;  there  wasn't 
a  sign  of  a  trout. 

But  I  heard  somebody  chuckle  behind  the  hol 
low  oak 

And  I  got  a  whiff  of  tobacco  like  Lilly  used  to 
smoke. 

It's  fifteen  years,  they  tell  me,  since  anyone  fished 
that  brook; 

And  there's  nothing  in  it  but  minnows  that  nib 
ble  the  bait  off  your  hook. 

But  before  the  sun  has  risen  and  after  the  moon 
has  set 

I  know  that  it's  full  of  ghostly  trout  for  Lilly's 
ghost  to  get. 

I  guess  I'll  go  to  the  tavern  and  get  a  bottle  of 

rye 
And  leave  it  down  by  the  hollow  oak,  where 

Lilly's  ghost  went  by. 


[72] 


TREES    AND    OTHER    POEMS 
DAVE  LILLY  (continued) 

I  meant  to  go  up  on  the  hillside  and  try  to  find 
his  grave 

And  put  some  flowers  on  it — but  this  will  be  bet 
ter  for  Dave. 


[73] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


ALARM  CLOCKS 

WHEN  Dawn  strides  out  to  wake  a  dewy 
farm 

Across  green  fields  and  yellow  hills  of  hay 
The  little  twittering  birds  laugh  in  his  way 
And  poise  triumphant  on  his  shining  arm. 
He  bears  a  sword  of  flame  but  not  to  harm 
The  wakened  life  that  feels  his  quickening 

sway 

And  barnyard  voices  shrilling  "It  is  day!" 
Take  by  his  grace  a  new  and  alien  charm. 

But  in  the  city,  like  a  wounded  thing 

That  limps  to  cover  from  the  angry  chase, 

He  steals  down  streets  where  sickly  arc-lights 

sing, 
And  wanly  mock  his  young  and  shameful  face ; 

And  tiny  gongs  with  cruel  fervor  ring 

In  many  a  high  and  dreary  sleeping  place. 


[74] 


TREES  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


WAVERLEY 

1814-1914 

\T7HEN,  on  a  novel's  newly  printed  page 

We  find  a  maudlin  eulogy  of  sin, 
And  read  of  ways  that  harlots  wander  in, 

And  of  sick  souls  that  writhe  in  helpless  rage ; 

Or  when  Romance,  bespectacled  and  sage, 
Taps  on  her  desk  and  bids  the  class  begin 
To  con  the  problems  that  have  always  been 

Perplexed  mankind's  unhappy  heritage ; 

Then  in  what  robes  of  honor  habited 

The  laureled  wizard  of  the  North  appears! 

Who  raised  Prince  Charlie's  cohorts  from  the 

dead, 
Made  Rose's  mirth  and  Flora's  noble  tears, 

And  formed  that  shining  legion  at  whose  head 
Rides  Waverley,  triumphant  o'er  the  years ! 


[75] 


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